


Exsanguinating Circumstances

by Chrononautical



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Happy Halloween!, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27305854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrononautical/pseuds/Chrononautical
Summary: All of the Shire is abuzz with rumors of how Bilbo Baggins saved the life of his young cousin Frodo after a terrible accident, but the poor lad is so pale and unwell afterward. Sam thinks he needs to eat more.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Frodo Baggins, Frodo Baggins/Sam Gamgee
Comments: 19
Kudos: 132





	Exsanguinating Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did write this whole story for the pun in the title. You're welcome. Happy Halloween!

At the end of a winding road, topping the Hill, overlooking all of Hobbiton, sat the finest home in the Shire: Bag End. Certainly there were grander places like Great Smials off in Tuckborough or Brandy Hall, but their very size meant they could not compete with Bag End for finery or taste. Every carpet and drape in Bag End was woven of the most exquisite fabric. All the furniture was plush and perfectly maintained. Intricate details carved into the woodwork caught the eye wherever one happened to glance. 

In a large place like Great Smials such woodwork would be dinged and dented by clumsy tweens. Lavish carpets would be trod low by too many feet. Weighed down by dozens of occupants, furniture would soon grow flat and solid. Bag End was so very fine because it held only one inhabitant. 

Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End was very rich and peculiar, having been the wonder of the Shire for nearly sixty years, ever since his remarkable disappearance and unexpected return. The riches brought back from his travels were a local legend, and many stories were told in the neighborhood of treasures hidden in Bag End’s deeper tunnels: strange items, foreign tomes, and uncanny objects. If that was not enough for fame, there was also his prolonged vigor to marvel at. Time wore on, but it seemed to have very little effect on Mr. Baggins. At eighty, he was much the same as he had been at fifty. At ninety, he looked no different. When he reached ninety-nine, they began to call him _well-preserved_ ; but _unchanged_ would have been more accurate. 

Some shook their heads and said it was too much of a good thing, but others said there was a cost. For although he looked youthful enough, one almost never saw Mr. Baggins out and about on a sunny market day. His apparent youth obviously did not come with perfect health, as he unhappily declined a great many lunch invitations. But he was always careful to apologize by throwing a dinner for the neglected acquaintance once he was feeling better. Indeed, several unscrupulous persons came into the habit of extending the offer of elevenses only because they knew Mr. Baggins would refuse and they would therefore enjoy the hospitality of Bag End without any cost to their own larders. 

Generous as he was with his money and his hospitality, Mr. Baggins had many devoted admirers among the hobbits of poor and unimportant families. He also remained on visiting terms with his relatives—excepting the Sackville-Bagginses, naturally. However, he had no close friends. No one ever spent more than a single night in the many extra bedrooms at Bag End. The big smial stood empty saving only its master, until some of his younger cousins grew up. 

It was then that tragedy struck, and Bilbo Baggins adopted an heir. Frodo Baggins was the eldest of his young cousins, the cleverest, and particularly bereft. Bringing him to Bag End was a perfectly natural choice for the generous Mr. Baggins. Nevertheless, tongues began to wag all over the Shire, as tongues always do. 

No one had a more attentive audience than Ham Gamgee, Sam’s Gaffer. He kept court at The Ivy Bush, down on the Bywater road not far from the pools, and all the neighborhood gathered round. Indeed, in all the neighborhood, he was the foremost authority, having tended the garden at Bag End for forty years, and helping old Holman in the same job before that. Now that his own joints were feeling the stiffness of age, the job was mainly carried on by Sam. But the lad was very happy to let his Gaffer keep the proper title. Both father and son were on rather friendly terms with Old Mister Bilbo, and Sam hoped very much to enjoy the same agreeable acquaintance with Mr. Frodo once he settled in. 

Frodo was too pale, and too sad. A little time out in a garden with Sam might do him some good. Not that Sam thought Mr. Frodo should do any of the digging. Certainly not! But some sunshine might bring roses to his cheeks. After coming from Brandy Hall in practically the middle in the night, Sam never once saw the young master outside the lovely confines of Bag End. 

“A very kind, well-spoken gentlehobbit is Mr. Bilbo, as I’ve always said,” the Gaffer declared to his friends at The Ivy Bush. This was the perfect truth. Bilbo was very polite to him, calling him Master Hamfast and consulting him on every particular in the garden with the utmost sincerity. Together they grew prize winning tomatoes and potatoes enough to supply half the hill overlooked by Bag End. Sam allowed himself a little pride in the potatoes: most of the work there was his own, done under the Gaffer’s direction. “Taught my Sam his letters, did Mr. Bilbo, though I’m not sure what good can come of that.” 

“But what about this Frodo he’s brought to live with him?” asked Old Noakes. “Baggins is his name, but he’s more than half a Brandybuck. His father might have been a Baggins of Hobbiton, but he’s grown up with his mother’s people, away off in Buckland. Strange things are said about folk in Buckland.” 

“Powerful strange,” put in Daddy Twofoot. “They live on the wrong side of the Brandywine River, right up against the Old Forest. That’s a dark, bad place, if half the tales be true.” 

“You’re right, Dad!” agreed the Gaffer. “Not to say the Brandybucks actually live in that evil Old Forest, but even so. Odd people. Very odd. Unnatural ways. They fool about with boats on the river, you know.”

Taking a long pull of his ale, Sam tried not to listen. The story demanded by the Gaffer’s audience was too terrible. Poor Mr. Frodo’s parents in a boat at night on the black water, going under and never coming up. Young Frodo being pulled out of the river, all still and cold. No one thought he would live, until Old Mister Bilbo put some trick he’d learned in foreign parts to use. 

“They said his eyes opened, but he never coughed up any water,” said Daddy Twofoot. 

“I’d believe it.” Sam’s Gaffer nodded knowingly. “Who knows what Mr. Bilbo learned from those elves in foreign parts? He’s a cunning hobbit, Old Baggins is. There might have been more than a trick to it, if you catch my meaning.”

“Some say Drogo pushed them both off the boat, and Frodo pulled his father after,” cut in Tad Sandyman, the local miller. 

Instantly, Sam’s stool hit the floor as he sprang to his feet, raising his fists. “You say it again and I’ll knock you down!”

“Now, Sam.” The Gaffer put a restraining hand on his arm. “Don’t go punching folk just for telling lies and spreading foolish rumors,” he said, for he did not like the miller any more than Sam did. “There’s trouble enough when folk go messing about with boats on the river. No need for talk of pushing and pulling, and no need for violence either.” 

Sandyman sneered. “Seems to me plain talk would be enough to reason out what happened. If the only answer you can make to an accusation is a punch, might be you’re afraid to talk facts.” 

“Seems to me,” said Sam, “that you haven’t let me give my answer at all. Stand up and take it like a hobbit!” 

“Samwise!” The Gaffer spoke quite sharply then. “Just you go take a walk. You’ve had a half too many! Leave the old folk to our talk.” 

After glaring at Sandyman one last time, Sam obediently settled his tab and strode out of the inn. The fresh night air cleared his head a little. Defending Old Mister Bilbo’s honor was one thing, but Sam hardly knew Mr. Frodo. He was kind enough, and close enough to Sam in age. Mr. Bilbo was teaching him to speak elvish; though he had never seen an elf any more than Sam had, he said he would like to. And he had hair as dark as the space between the stars, eyes the exact color of the wading pool at Bywater on an August day without wind when everything was so perfectly still, and a smile that made Sam’s stomach twist up like an old rag. 

Without thinking, his feet lead him past his own little hobbit hole on Bagshot Row and up all the way to Bag End. Most of the curtains were drawn, for the hour was late and the moon was high, but one window was open in deference to the summer night. There sat Mr. Frodo. At his back, golden lamplight spilled out from somewhere deep inside his room, but his face was as pale as the moon above. He looked so very lonely. More than anything, Sam wanted to knock on the door to offer him some company, but that was hardly a gardener’s place. 

Sam knew his place, and he kept to it. As pulling weeds turned into pulling potatoes and plucking tomatoes turned into harvesting squash, he kept his head down. He’d be a fool to raise his eyes to Bag End, though Mr. Frodo was just as kind and friendly as Mr. Bilbo always had been. The poor hobbit seemed to suffer greatly from his near drowning, or perhaps, more simply, a broken heart at losing his parents, for he almost never stirred out of Bag End. While this was a great loss to the neighborhood, Sam was at least able to put himself forward more than usual to fetch Mr. Baggins’s groceries from market and any other little errands that wanted doing about the place. 

In fact, he did such a fine job of making himself indispensable that when Mr. Bilbo was called away to Tuckborough for a few weeks, he asked Sam particularly to look in on Mr. Frodo. 

“Just be sure he’s eating,” said the master of Bag End with a worried look over his shoulder. “Don’t put yourself to any trouble, just ask him if he’s eaten. He won’t lie to you, so just ask him. Every day, mind. I really oughtn’t go. He’s not ready to be left alone, but he did insist and Paladin won’t give me a moment of peace until he sees me in person.” 

Puffing up importantly, Sam promised to do everything he could for Mr. Frodo. 

“Just ask him if he’s eaten,” Mr. Bilbo repeated. “Every day. He won’t lie to you.” 

Quietly, and to himself like, Sam resolved to do a little more than ask. He wasn’t a brilliant cook, but his game pie with bacon and sage was generally well regarded in the neighborhood. He’d even won a prize for his Cherry and Pound Cake Trifle at the last free faire, and that was up against Goody Proudfoot’s Three Berry Trifle with the lemon custard and her famous sponge. A little Cherry and Pound Cake Trifle wouldn’t do Mr. Frodo any harm, if his appetite needed tempting. 

Sam blushed at the thought. Luckily, Mr. Bilbo didn’t seem to notice. He clapped Sam on the shoulder, taking his leave. “I will trust him in your capable hands, Samwise Gamgee.” Then he cast up his hood in that peculiar foreign way he sometimes did even when the weather was fine and the afternoon sun was shining, going off on another one of his little adventures. 

Justifying Mr. Bilbo’s trust, Sam knocked on the round green door of Bag End that same evening. Mr. Frodo answered, smiling a soft welcoming smile when he saw who was waiting. “Sam.” 

“Yes, sir.” Sam bobbed his head courteously. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’ve finished dead heading the mums. Thought I’d just pop in to ask if you’d had your supper yet, sir. What with Mr. Bilbo being away.” 

“As it happens, I have not,” said Frodo. And though he opened the door wider to usher Sam in, his welcoming face went a little flat. “Would you care to join me?” 

Somewhat shocked at the invitation, Sam hesitated. It wasn’t proper. Not at all what anyone would call proper, a Gamgee sitting at table in Bag End. A pipe shared in the garden, maybe. But to make free of the house? Sam’s Gaffer would have a thing or two to say about that. 

Frodo’s smile grew knowing and amusement crinkled up his eyes. “I’m sure you’re expected at home. But you can at least tell Bilbo you asked.”

At that, Sam drew himself up. He had no intention of failing Mr. Bilbo. “Thank you for the invitation, sir.” He stepped across the threshold. “What are we having?” 

Frodo blinked in surprise. “I don’t know, actually,” he said, which was as good as admitting he hadn’t been planning to eat. 

Sam nodded, suddenly quite comfortable. “Just leave it to me, sir.” Bustling past Mr. Frodo, he made his way in to the kitchen larder, which he knew very well after months of bringing the vegetables in. He found a hanging pheasant, drained of blood but not yet plucked or cleaned, and soon had the bird neatly arranged in a roasting pan with a few carrots and turnips. Whisking up a quick custard on the stove top, he layered it nicely with strawberry jam and a little fresh rhubarb. Decorating the top with whipped cream and cinnamon, Sam set the desserts to chill just as it was time to baste his bird. Noting that it needed a little time yet, he continued working. Sam boiled and mashed some potatoes with plenty of butter; tossed together a quick salad of fresh cabbage dressed with vinegar, oil, pumpkin seeds, and a bit of apple; and then cut some nice thick slices of rye bread straight from Goody Proudfoot’s bakery. When he pulled the big pheasant from the oven, smelling the sage and admiring the bird’s crisp, brown skin, Sam felt he had a meal worthy of the table at Bag End. 

“Dear Sam,” said Frodo, with what an extremely bold person might dare to call a certain fondness, “you didn’t need to go to all this trouble.” 

“No trouble at all, sir.” Sam bobbed his head, his cheeks burning hot enough to roast the bird a second time over. “I’ll just leave you to it.” 

“Oh no you don’t, Sam.” Frodo grinned at him. “After cooking a meal like this, you’ll stay to eat it. Or I’ll throw it all away and feed it to Farmer Holman’s pig!” 

“That mean old monster? You wouldn’t, sir.”

“Try me.” 

And so Sam really had no choice at all but to sit down with Mr. Frodo, sharing a lovely supper. While he hadn’t been on any adventures, Mr. Frodo was just as much of a story teller as Old Mister Bilbo, and Sam was happy to hear him talk. He never felt slow or stupid for not understanding the elvish poetry Mr. Frodo quoted or failing to catch a literary reference, for Mr. Frodo always caught himself. He would stop, glance down with a wry smile, and say something like, “I suppose that I am being a terrible swot right now, that phrase only means ‘stars glimmer even unseen,’ which is a bit like when we in the Shire say ‘the sun will come out tomorrow,’ but anyway, my point is—” And then Sam would have learned something worth knowing along with hearing Frodo’s point, which was always well made. 

If that dinner lasted years and years, Sam could have lived the rest of his life right there and died happy. It seemed that Frodo might have had just the slightest inclination along the same line, for he invited Sam to share a pipe in the sitting room when they were finished. 

Sam wanted desperately to accept. Poor Mr. Frodo was all alone in the big smial without Mr. Bilbo. Surely a little company would do him good. But it wasn’t Sam’s place. One of Mr. Frodo’s relatives really ought to be the one to bask in those smiles. Perhaps a nice lass of a good family. Mr. Frodo shouldn’t waste them on his gardener. 

“Thank you, sir, but I am expected at home.” And indeed he was. The Gaffer scolded him more than a little for coming in so long after dark, missing his own supper. Worse, he did not believe that his youngest son had been up at Bag End the entire time. 

“Off larking with the Cottons, I’ve no doubt,” said the Gaffer. Then he snorted. “I suppose you’ll get into what trouble you like. Tweens always do. Just you show up for work in the mornings and we’ll speak no more about it.” 

So they did not speak about it, but that afternoon Sam finished up his work in the garden a little sooner than usual and boldly asked Mr. Frodo if he’d eaten that day. It was obvious that he had not; Frodo looked paler and even more unwell than usual.

Sam found a big ham hanging in the larder, and set it to roasting in the oven. While it was sizzling away filing the room with a lovely smell, he boiled up a pot of butternut squash soup with shaved apples for sweetness and fresh ginger for kick. Then he put together the batter for an apple cake, neatly arranging the sliced apples in an elegant fan about the top before setting it aside. On the stove top, he sauteed brussels sprouts with a little garlic, fluffed up a bit of millet with carrot, onion, and pepper, and poached a few pears. Taking note of the time, he slipped a couple potatoes into the oven to bake alongside the ham. After that, he sliced up his cooling poached pears to toss them in a rocket salad with a few crumbs of goat cheese, some pine nuts, and a nice red onion. Pulling out the big ham and the potatoes, he popped in the apple cake and served dinner while it was baking. 

Once again, Sam and Frodo enjoyed a lovely meal along with even better company. Frodo spoke with animation about any number of topics, as though revitalized by the food or the wine or, possibly, Sam’s presence. And there was a little more wine on this second occasion, stuff so fine that Sam had never tasted the like: a bottle of the Old Wynyards. But there was not enough wine in the world to make Samwise Gamgee forget himself to the extent of joining Mr. Frodo in the parlor after supper. Instead, once again, he did the washing up and made his way home. 

Day after day for a week, Sam asked Mr. Frodo if he had eaten. And day after day for a week, hearing that the answer was no, he prepared and shared a supper fit for any Baggins, even a Baggins of Bag End. It didn’t seem to do any good. Day after day, Mr. Frodo grew paler and thinner. On the seventh day, a strange suspicion grew in Sam’s mind, a nagging question that begged to be repeated. 

After an elaborate dinner of kale salad dressed with lemon and almonds, potato leek soup, broccoli casserole with cheese, glazed sweet potatoes, Sam’s best game pie, and a big bread pudding for dessert, but before Frodo could invite him to the parlor for a pipe he would have to decline, Sam asked again. “Have you eaten today, Mr. Frodo?” 

Freezing like a startled hare, Frodo said nothing for a long moment. Then he laughed in a way Sam did not recognize, a sharp and bitter sound. 

“No, Sam. No, I won’t lie to you. I haven’t.” 

“All right,” said Sam, slowly piecing together facts that made no sense at all. “It’s something particular you need to eat, isn’t it? Something that makes you well?” 

“Better,” Frodo corrected unhappily. “Nothing will make me well.” 

“Better, then,” Sam said, straightening up. “Well, there’s no sense griping about like a fauntling just because you do not like your medicine. What is it? I will fetch you some this minute.” 

Impossibly, Frodo paled even further and drew back. “No, it is too awful. Go home, Sam. Go home, and I will—I will—” 

“You won’t,” said Sam as kindly as he could. “Don’t worry, Mr. Frodo. Trust your Sam, and we’ll see it through together, whatever it is.” 

“Blood,” Frodo whispered.

Sam blinked. It was a bit of a poser, that. “Well,” he said, “the butcher shop is long closed and everything in the larder is already drained. I’m not quite sure—”

“It doesn’t bother you?” The curiosity in Frodo’s eyes seemed to clear some of the abject misery from his face. “I just told you I must drink blood, and you’re only worrying about where to get it?” 

“Nothing wrong with a little black pudding,” Sam said firmly. “Though I take it you must have the stuff straight. Perhaps nicely warmed in a teacup, sir? But I’m really not sure where to find it. If the sun were up I could bag a rabbit, but this time of night I’m not sure. Perhaps Old Noakes would sell me a hen if I made some excuse.” 

Frodo shuddered. “No need. There are rabbits. In cages in the yellow sun room, Bilbo keeps rabbits. For. Well—” 

“For keeping you healthy,” Sam said. “Good thing he does! Though why he never asks me in to clean out the cages, I’ve no idea. Makes for lovely fertilizer, rabbit droppings, and without the fury as usually comes with knowing they’ve been nibbling away at the cabbages, I’d be happy to have some.” 

A hint of a smile almost dared to show on Frodo’s lips. 

“So I’ll just nip along and do what’s needed, sir. How will you take it? Warm or chilled? Do I need to add special herbs or anything?” 

The smile dropped away, leaving Frodo a picture of misery once more. “No, don’t,” he said. “It’s always, always awful, but I suppose it is the least terrible when I just—when I just take it from the rabbit. Directly.” 

Sam had no idea what Frodo meant by that, except perhaps asking him not to heat it in a saucepan or chill it in any way, but he sensed there was something more. “Surely it is not so terrible as all of that, sir. You have never been this out of sorts before. Surely Mr. Bilbo must do something that makes the stuff palatable.”

Frodo looked away. “Bilbo drinks it for me,” he whispered. “He’s too kind to me. Much too kind.” 

“How does that work?” Sam asked. “If it’s your medicine, I mean. How could him taking it benefit you?” 

“Bilbo drinks it from the rabbit,” Frodo said slowly, “and then I drink from Bilbo. It tastes better that way. It isn’t so awful, either. The rabbits die. It’s so hard not to take too much from them. But I can’t ever take more than Bilbo is willing to give.” 

As Frodo spoke, Sam’s heart sped in his chest. His stomach clamped and clenched around a heavy meal that now floated in his belly like a thousand fluttering butterflies. “Nor me,” he said. “I mean, I’ll do the same, sir. And you can—you could never take more than I was willing to give, sir.” 

Wild blue eyes darted up to meet Sam’s own, then. For a long moment, Frodo simply stared as Sam fought the urge to go on babbling and explaining himself. Finally, Frodo said, “You wouldn’t need to do the same. Bilbo is like me, he needs to drink the blood, but you don’t Sam. You can eat bread pudding and game pie.” 

“I want to help you. I mean to help you.” 

Frodo took a step forward, closing the distance between them, and placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. Every inch of him leapt to attention, rising to meet the simple touch. “I’m not asking you to bleed into a teacup, Sam. I want—I need—if you allow it, I would drink from you. My mouth against your skin. Could you bear such a thing?” 

Trembling as though he would shake apart, Sam nodded. 

Instantly, Frodo stumbled backward. “I won’t!” he cried. “Look at you, you’re terrified! Oh, Sam. My Sam! Will you ever forgive me? Go home. Your people are expecting you. I will be well in the morning, and all of this will be a bad dream.” 

“No,” protested Sam. “No, sir! Mr. Frodo, please. Let me help. I’m not afraid. I’m not. You can—blimey—you can—if you must—I mean, if you want to, you can touch me. That’s, er, just fine. I mean, I expect I should wash first?” 

As Sam babbled, Frodo stopped backing away and cocked his head to one side. “Sam. I must ask you something, and you must answer me truthfully. Will you?” 

“I promise, sir.” 

“Bilbo is like me. He also needs the blood. Would you let him drink from you?” 

Sam bit his own lip. This was not at all the question he’d been expecting, but he’d promised to answer. “No, sir,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t.” 

All at once, Frodo broke into a blinding grin, so bright and happy that Sam felt ten feet tall for putting it on his face, though he wasn’t quite sure why a refusal would do so. “That’s all right then,” said Frodo, extending a hand. Sam took it, and their fingers laced together like two halves of a whole. “Come into the parlor.” 

Following Frodo into the parlor like a hobbit walking through a dream, Sam accepted a seat right next to his host on the very same sofa. Frodo smiled again. For a smile like that, Sam would follow him to any place in all the world. Then, Frodo put a hand on Sam’s jaw and all the world faded completely away. 

Their lips met. Frodo kissed him. A sweet, simple brush that was almost innocent. His mouth was cooler and smoother than Sam expected a mouth to be, but he had no experience by which to judge. When Frodo brushed a second kiss against Sam’s cheek, it was even sweeter, an entirely unexpected gesture that might come from a mother or a maiden aunt. There was nothing illicit in it. Nothing to explain the way Sam’s breath was coming in pants and his heart was beating fit to burst from his chest. A kiss to his jaw. A kiss to his ear. A kiss to his neck. 

Then Frodo entered him. The flash of pain was no more than a pinprick, the quick slip of a very sharp knife, before all the world exploded into fireworks and flame. Sam grew larger and larger, expanding outward as Frodo pushed into him and somehow drew him forth. He was floating on stars and admiring the carved arches of Bag End’s best visiting parlor. Frodo smelled like bread pudding and new grass and every good thing in all the world, and he felt—he felt—

Afterward, Frodo licked his neck, an incongruous sloppy gesture for a Baggins, and Sam almost came back to his senses. Then he kissed him again, and Sam tasted another hobbit’s tongue in his mouth for the first time. Frodo was warm, and sweet, and impossibly generous. 

“You’ll stay the night,” said Frodo. There were roses in his cheeks, which were full and healthy in a way that Sam had never seen. 

“I’m expected,” he protested weakly. 

“You’ll stay the night.” Frodo slipped a hand beneath Sam’s shirt, trailing warm fingers over his skin. “And every night from now on. I’m going to take care of you.” 

And so it was that tongues wagged even more from Bywater all the way to Bree that the gardener of Bag End had taken up residence in the house. But no one was particularly unkind, for everyone knew that Old Mister Bilbo was getting on in years and Young Mister Frodo was unwell after his near drowning. It was natural that they should need some extra help. There were extenuating circumstances.


End file.
